To the fierce dauntless Heruka, the vivid splendour of the guru's three mandalas, I bow with ubiquitous respect. I offer thee my confuse confessions and aspirations.

To see the world as a all-white-squares Rubik's cube requires merit. As I walk around and watch all kinds of behaviour — people trying hard for nothing, those who gave up and lie in their brutal stupidity of smoking and chatting, others who seek consistency through meticulous effort, a few just trying to be normal, and even some of the goody-wooly motherfuckers that reach jnanas and pure lands of bodhisattva's excrements — I confess never to remember to think well of beings. How crazy am I? To see things as I see, and yet to remain numb!? I'm such a dumb-ass leech of hard tears-and-blood attained merit!

Yet I still spin around deeply aroused by the magical display of young voluptuous boobs in the bus, spiced with rare moments of lucidity facing the futility of it all. Oh, if I ever had put my eyes on the dharma as I covet the breasts of white rosaceous maidens! (Sure, all the same/not the same — try harder, relax, beware. I get all my so-damn-good excuses around that crap!)

Actually, it is rather fun — when I don't get so fanatical. The pure nectar of Father Longchenpa lying in the couch while Sony Entertainment Television spurs sitcoms in my retina, how ironic! Hungry-ghost women scaring the shit out of me when I try to socialize a little bit, and Fabinca everyday teaching the highest of teachings¹ (with tears in my eyes I rejoyce for her!).

I have no tears left for those who don't partake of the supreme unelaborate spontaneous effortless view, lost in their petty pacts of mediocrity. For those bones, meat and blood I vow to consume myself when the fire comes in the last days — this being my whole-hearted sincere aspiration — their zombie expectations and tiresome folly reduced to a rich disgusting soup of time wasted and despair. Poor sad bastards, yet nothing of them will remain. Nhammy. May your complete attainment be bestowed upon me, for the complete accomplishment of that single task to be possible.

On the other side, getting depressed over fake news, laughing at immoral industrial packages, raging against people who stall the streets in obliviousness, completelly devoid of any word of the dharma, completelly devoid of any notion of where I'm going when my prison-palace gets destroyed by the mighty forces of innevitable karma. No ground, no beer and resting in peace, just tautologies to be demonstrated in Gentzen's natural deduction system. And I'm still thinking how my politics professor couldn't know that almost all humans are inconsistent, and still trying to figure out how paraconsistency can make dialog with inconsistency possible. Ah, you know the whole shabanga! Otherwise, mental harakiri for you, mkey?

Soles and foot of humour stamped in my face: laughing at what? Nothing is serious, except this fact. Not even that: ahá!

May all beings benefit. Save the shrimps! May I have the energy to get my bike fixed for the summer!

We need to consider things well
go beyond crazy spontaneity
and crazy checking details.

Everyday's a feast of experiences,
some food to pigeons
and a good nice warm bed.

Ah, I would like to let it always be this way.
But, wait! It is!
Nothing to complain about.

On the other hand, more lines to write.
Sleep to have.
A waking at a given time, if I have the opportunity, again.

And then future plans.
"When I become someone important, will you listen to me?"
Will I listen to me? Not even I do know. Forget all this.

When rotting in the ground, will I still worry?
Just before that, will I fear experience more?
Experience hope, experience fear, right now, let go.

Will I be wise? If I have time, I will know me a fool — at least now.
Since I know I'm a fool, I'm already wise.
And I know when to stop writing.

But I'm a fool, and I keep going.
Because I like to show off.
People read me, you know.

You know.
I know.
What's left?

My forehead on the screen,
blessed computer.
I sure would like to say something more. Why?

[originally posted in dying sun, 5. 26. 2004 00:13 ]

Reality is quite clear for those
who immediately acknowledge its nature,
and it also has some creations and manifestations
which make it fun.

There's actually no way somebody can run from this
it should be what it is, always.

When this recognition becomes solidified
there's a lapse,
a faint of consciousness,
which creates I and its endeavours.

This should be a playfull apparition
of all the necessary tools of compassion.
And should not be our last refuge:
it must know from where it came.

The unconditioned base, free of elaboration
where space and time mean
nothing
is the essential nature of reality,
and should be enjoyed
in all its displays and meaning,
not lacking atoms of time
and limits of space.

Since we are caught in the webs and fabrications of mind,
and start to believe the solitity of games,
this base has been completelly lost.
This is suffering.

It is therefore of the utmost necessity not ever to waver from reality.
And relax in the spontaneous presence
of Yama Dharmaraja, Kalachakra and Avalokiteshvara.
Guru Rinpoche himself would be pleased if only we did that.

How ugly and annoying son-of-a-bitch were you.
Even so, sometimes I love you, oh butterfly effect of the greeks.

Should the demon possess me,
I would not talk, but dance.
How could you be such a blabber?

Still, both your intellectual dishonesty and your utter integrity
remain the opposites complementary to men's dogmatic sleep.

Socrates is mortal,
And what pain in the ass
Non-sequitur triplet irony, what a drag!

We had to kill you, of course.
Our parties became dull by your histrionics,
and you just couldn't leave.

Yeah, and I still have to face my own demon.
He is quite a charm.
Please don't ask me to introduce you.

Ah, the feeling of a throughly done backup.

All my files neatly arranged for my dear alien archeologists...
They must read even this. Again and again, such a bore.

"Hiya, alive companion, this is what I did with my life."

I can cheat a computer virus, maybe a defective hard drive,
or even a fire or flood — if I'm very lucky.

But if it is at all true that any of this shall be of interest to someone after my demise — and I work hard to keep my quaint scribble alive and well — will not be long before zero kelvin anyways.

In fact, that's the only thing worth saying. Keep that in mind.